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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447449">One More Chapter We've Yet To Write</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidPrince/pseuds/cryptidPrince'>cryptidPrince</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dark Knight Questline (Final Fantasy XIV) Spoilers, M/M, Male Miqo'te WoL - Freeform, NSFW In Future Chapters, Omnitank WoL, Spoilers through end of 5.3, also Alisaie is the best Scion I don't make the rules, eventual OT3, rating will be adjusted, three tired heroes who deserve a rest and a good smooch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:00:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidPrince/pseuds/cryptidPrince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a Person living inside the body of the Warrior of Light.</p><p>(Or: answering questions like "what's ardbert been up to" and "what does the emotional comedown from 5.3 look like" and "What if these three boys kissed and talked about their varying hero complexes")</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ardbert/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Ardbert/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue - To this riddle all souls are tied</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love WoL/G'raha but I also love WoL/Ardbert and love triangles are boring so why not let them all kiss</p><p>But also for real I think they are three v interesting "heroes" of differing stripes and I want the three of them to interact together and no content I've been able to find really does that so I said 'fuck it I'll write it'</p><p>story feat. my Miquo'te WoL tankboy Rhiv'ir Rhelko</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is a Person living inside the body of the Warrior of Light.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows this-- the Person inside of the Warrior of Light, that is. He knows that all around him is nothingness, and nothingness does not mean that he exists within some endless white light nor an endless black void because it is simply nothingness; and then within the nothingness is a something-ness that is an aether-dense soul. Him. He exists in that nothing-something: here at the nexus of memory and being, past and present, staring into an uncertain future. Isn’t that what makes a soul, anyway? One part memory, one part essence, all of it scribed in the aether that flows along each branching channel of life? The Person doesn’t have a body, but he can feel that aether surrounding him, too. He sifts through the memory-part of the soul like paging through age-worn leather-bound tomes in a library. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Here are some glimpses from the first book, labeled Volume One: the morning salt-spray of Aleport, craning his neck to look up at the galleons being built in the shipyard. His mother’s freckled hands chopping onions and making his eyes water in the kitchen of the family inn as she hums an old drinking song. His big brother bodily pulling him away by the tail in order to stop him from running to see what a Sahagin looks like up close. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a lot of those memories, the Person thinks fondly; many instances where curiosity or boredom or plain old goodwill meant striding headlong into something dangerous. Can he search for specific things? He tries and finds he can: attends to a memory of climbing a sky-sweeping tree in order to bring down his sister’s kite despite her shouting that it’s dangerous, why is he up there, it’s not worth it-- and then the shock of pain and the rush of air leaving his lungs as he plummets and hits the ground. She has to carry him home; but the rumpled kite he saved is clutched in his hand, so he’s satisfied. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What of the next book? He flips by more memories: a speckle-faced teenage boy standing before a mirror and fixing a stray lock of copper hair that won’t seem to sit right between the sweep of his long ears. Lying atop the hill overlooking town to watch the stars with his best friend and trace their own made-up constellations in the sky. Exploring the abandoned farmhouse that everyone says is haunted at the edge of his family’s ranch near the fishing pond…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wait-- that last one doesn’t fit here. Strange. The Person dunks his consciousness into it and takes a deeper look: the trees are purple and the stars are strung differently in the night, air thick with cricket-hums and blue fireflies and the blanketing mantle of Summer heat, none of the sea-salt smell from the other memories. The tenor of the world is different. The body of the person in this memory is taller, too, and it feels so different from the body in the one with the kite or the hair. It’s broader, less balanced, his hearing less acute; where in the midnight of the memory before he could see the shift of swaying grass and bugs crawling clearly despite the darkened shape of Dalamud in the sky, in this second one he can barely make out the rickety wood structure before him and Dalamud is nowhere to be seen. It’s like these are someone else’s eyes he’s using…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re starting to get it,” A voice says, and the Person living inside the Warrior of Light jumps, for he had been under the impression that there was only one person living here and the prospect of another sharing this nowhere-somewhere is perplexing. Scary? Well, if it was scary that would require having a presence to be scared for, and he doesn’t. Not here, not now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The voice continues, “Took you long enough.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who are you?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He has no mouth or throat with which to speak but it seems like this new voice can understand him perfectly fine anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Someone who has been here a hell of a lot longer than you,” It huffs, “And at least I began here, too. He may have made a home for you out of his soul, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he is, isn’t he? The Warrior of Light? Or so the Person thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, you once had that title but you’re not-- ugh, you’re lucky his niceness somehow rubbed off on me. How do I explain this?” The voice sighs as though burdened deeply and a pang of indignancy sparks inside the person. Strangely enough, that seems to please the voice. “Oh, there. See that? You are annoyed with me. You have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> outside of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, outside of me. Does that make sense?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not particularly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, let me show you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then within the nothing-something stands a man-- the first thing the Person living here has seen outside of the shadowplay memories he’s been sifting through. The man's face is immediately recognizable: a Miquo’te with the same speckled cheeks and golden eyes and gil-copper hair as the teen from the memory in the mirror, but aged and broader and standing a few inches taller despite the weighty sheen of black platemail and the heavy greatsword on his back. The way his features move are eerily familiar, even as the expressions on this man’s face present themselves in a manner that somehow feels wrong-- as if they go against something that the Person is used to, despite a complete failure to recall what that could be. The man folds his arms, ears pressing down into the fluff of his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Rhiv’ir, or at least I’m a part of him. He knows I’m here and he knows I’m him but when we met he thought I was a different person all together-- and in those times he called me Fray.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is very confusing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For you, maybe. But I suppose that’s to be expected,” Fray sighs again, “You don’t remember not-being Him because you two merged his broken soul and your faded one. It was stupid and reckless but I gotta say, sort of a brilliant move there. Stupid in a good way. Honestly, considering how hard it is to get souls and bodies to play nice with each other it’s a wonder that it worked, but we-- me and him-- have always been the kind of guy that makes things happen no matter what, so.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m honestly not sure if you love him or hate him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Both? Neither? It’s all sorta one big loop, probably more of a self-esteem thing-- but that’s beside the point. I think you’re starting to find the edges of yourself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t noticed until Fray pointed it out, but he does feel different. The Person can almost recognize the distance between himself and the books, himself and Fray, see the glint of purple around the corners of the memory of the haunted barn that marks it as separate from the others. There’s a few similar motes of color and texture that stain memories folded into each of these books as being taken from different sources-- notes shoved between the pages. Maybe it’s more like passages of a destroyed old book ripped out and slipped into a more complete, undamaged volume.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It might take a while, but you should be able to put yourself back together now,” Fray gestures to the memories, “There are pieces of you in there among our things. You can find them if you look,” His expression grows wolfish, flashing one sharp canine in a lopsided smirk, “I would say it’s rude to pry into other peoples’ memories’ but you don’t have much of a choice if you’re gonna become whole again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you know me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In a sense. I knew you because He knew you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who was I?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t give you all the answers, that would mean I’m doing the hard work and I don’t make a habit of cleaning up other people’s messes when they are perfectly capable of doing so themselves,” Fray dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand, then seems to soften his tone-- just a little, “But… you’re important to us, to Him, so I’m not gonna leave you completely out to dry. I guess at the end of the day we’re both sentimental people. Even if he doesn’t know you’re still conscious in here, I do. He cared about you a lot, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>About me…?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll see,” Fray sits, and the Person has a feeling that they are now at eye-level even if he himself doesn’t really feel like he has eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can you at least tell me my name?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The smallest quirk of a smile tips the edge of Fray’s mouth, “Yeah, I can do that much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a Person living inside the body of the Warrior of Light. His name is Ardbert.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The days of our years gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“According to the skywatchers we’re in for a storm,” Alphinaud says mildly from behind his book, glancing up at the gloom overhead, “We should probably move in soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finally,” Alisaie replies, “It’s hotter than an anala’s arse out here--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alisaie!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, “What? It’s true.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Late summer in Mor Dhona is a sodden thing-- the clouds grow lazy, as if they themselves aren’t sure it’s worth the effort to rain and so wrap themselves up to blanket the sun as the people of Revenant’s Toll below swelter in the damp. Now and then the summer storms fall in heavy sheets and it feels like a release. Of what? Rhiv’ir isn’t sure. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, then,” Alisaie nudges his shoulder and urges him back inside, carrying part of their makeshift picnic into the Rising Stones. He obliges with a smile, gingerly picking up the dropcloth beneath the screws and bolts of his disassembled gunblade and making sure not to lose any of the tiny springs that always have a way of going missing. It’s good timing, too, since barely a minute later one of Rhiv’ir’s ears swivels to pick up the percussive </span>
  <em>
    <span>pit-pat</span>
  </em>
  <span> of rain against the windows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances at his erstwhile chaperones. No one’s said it out loud but he knows that the twins aren’t here simply for his company. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ever since they returned from the First and brought G’raha back it had seemed as if, for a moment, they might be able to briefly enjoy their hard-won peace; but it was on the morning that Krile was set to return to Eureka that Y’shtola stopped, looked up from her tea at Rhiv’ir (with a half-eaten piece of toast hanging out of his mouth), and asked him if he was feeling alright. The question seemed innocuous in the moment but it was only a matter of time before trouble found him again. That’s just how life as the Warrior of Light works.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your aether has shifted,” Y’shtola had replied, narrowing her gaze as if it could help her understand exactly what she was sensing, “It’s dense still, yes, but-- Hm. Interesting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Interesting?” Urianger repeated, looking up from his cards to Y’shtola and Rhiv’ir (who by now had swallowed his mouthful of bread and was squirming a bit like a bug beneath a microscope), “What dost thou see, Y’shtola?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tapped her cheek thoughtfully, “Honestly, I’m not sure. It looks to me as though our friend’s aether is increasing in density.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ultimately they decided that it was a small shift, and it wouldn’t do any good to panic considering the cause could be any number of innocuous things: the settling of a new normal for Rhiv’ir’s light-stricken body, for example, or residue from traveling to and from the First. Still, they would need to keep an eye on him. That’s the thing about being from an organization of people who are constantly under threat from one force or another: there is no such thing as “innocuous” when you are always looking over your shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir doesn’t miss the way Y’shtola does a once-over with her milkwhite eyes every time she walks by him now, or how Urianger lingers as though trying to reach out and sense his condition by some sort of proximity osmosis. Everyone is worried-- and that means Rhiv’ir smiles at them and makes a quiet joke and they smile back with some measure of relief that he’s composed, and that composure means they have no reason to fear because he’s the Warrior of Light and it’ll all work out in the end. He likes being able to make them feel better. All of the Scions carry so much.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens as Rhiv’ir is spreading out the bundle of cloth and parts on the table, and based on the cadence of the footsteps alone he knows exactly who it is before he turns to look. Coming in from the steamy downpour is G’raha, clutching a bow in one hand with a quiver slung over his shoulder, scarf pulled up in a makeshift hood that hangs and drips a little from the rain. Rhiv’ir had wondered when he would be back but looking up to see G’raha’s face shadowed-- eyes hidden, skin glistening almost like crystal-- makes him stop and freeze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha doesn’t seem to notice and happily sets down his bow, already beginning to ramble, “Wow, it’s pouring out there, I thought I’d have a little more time to practice but I was very wrong-- what’s that look for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir shakes his head and shrugs. How could he see the Exarch there when the smile that lights up that damp face is so utterly and completely G’raha Tia?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, just means I’ll have to rest. There’s worse things than that, certainly-- oh, I could work on my book...” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that counts as rest,” Alphinaud remarks dryly, getting up to help G’raha take off his scarf and find somewhere to let it dry. Alisaie scoffs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If there’s anyone in the world who rivals this one--” She jerks her head towards Rhiv’ir, “At not taking a break, it’s got to be him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That earns a laugh. G’raha’s cheeks flush, but he’s slowly getting used to the constant ribbing banter that bats back and forth between all of the Scions any given day of the week. Presumably most people didn’t feel open to making fun of The Crystal Exarch back in the First. A shame, Rhiv’r thinks, because G’raha’s got a wicked sense of humor when he has the mind for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a lot to catch up on,” He replies, shaking the water from his ears, “I used to be a quite capable archer! I wanted to know if I still have the skill.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’r looks at him with raised brows.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… might need some practice,” G’raha, drying his face on the less soggy end of his scarf, looks a little sheepish. It’s endlessly endearing-- Rhiv’ir is familiar with how his own heart melts to see the readily evident joy G’raha now carries in everything he does, and he can’t help but smile. Maybe it feels so powerful because he knows how sober and controlled his life as the Exarch had been; there’s hope in the way he’s blossomed now that he’s been planted in different soil. Hope for what? For something. Rhiv’ir doesn’t know the aim of it, if hope has to have an aim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What of you, my friend? What have you been up to?” G’raha’s sunshine now turns to him, who gestures at the parts on the table with a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Repairs,” He shrugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How industrious of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha pulls out the chair beside him, watching curiously as Rhiv’ir’s hands sift through the shiny little pieces. He glances around, looking through all of them for a small screwdriver meant for the delicate little bolts around the cartridge chambers. Has he gone and lost it again?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A hero who has felled those who would play God among mortals,” G'raha intones, as though reading from his favorite book of legends, “And here you are trying to find… what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My screwdriver…” Rhiv’ir replies, not particularly noticing G’raha’s tone until he is laughing at the look of consternation furrowing the Warrior Of Light’s face. He glances up to see G’raha’s chuckling behind a polite hand, can’t help but reply with an echoed laugh of his own. The sunshine is infectious, apparently, “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing, nothing. It’s just funny is all,” He replies, lifting up the corner of the dropcloth so Rhiv’ir can see that he’d left his tools beneath the damn thing this whole time. Rhiv’ir takes his screwdriver gratefully, even with the exasperated huff at his own mistake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, oh great Crystal Exarch,” he laughs, reaching up to brush a drop of rain clinging to the end of G’raha’s ear. G’raha seems to sober a little at the mention of his own title, and Rhiv’ir internally kicks himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t call you that,” He corrects himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no, it’s not that. I just…” G’raha’s smile is directed at his folded hands, wan compared to his earlier grin, “It reminds me of when I had to hide things from you, and manipulate you all... Of course being the Exarch is still an important part of my life, but I want you to know me as me. Not just from the NOAH times, and not just as the Crystal Exarch. But <em>me</em>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir nods slowly, “So… G’raha then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Or just Raha,” he smiles, “I know you didn’t grow up in a traditional clan, either, so I think we can do away with some of the formalities of our people by now. We’re close enough.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>There's no doing away with the little edge of warmth and pride that lilts his voice when he replies: "I'd say so, too."</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gets back to tinkering, body shifted as if in apology so G’raha can see what he’s doing with his hands: how he wipes the powder residue from each barrel, how he replaces the trigger and guard, how each part fits into the mechanistic whole. He’s found that G’raha is curious about anything and everything and is eager to learn, and Rhiv’ir would never deny him that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How has it been, adjusting back?” He hazards a glance at G’raha, who settles his elbows on the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s good, but… strange. I spent so many hundreds of years away, and sometimes my life in Eorzea felt like little more than a fanciful dream. Then I became desperate enough that even taking a chance on a dream felt worth the risk-- and that risk paid off. You and the rest of the Scions showed up and suddenly this world was real to me again, even so far away from my own,” he looks around the Rising Stones, lips easing into a wistful smile, “And now I am here, and despite how many years I lived at the Crystarium I now must fight to keep that world and that life as vibrant in my heart as the one I exist in now. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice-- letting a place feel less real for how far from me it has become.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha sighs, drooping in such a young man’s gesture that Rhiv’ir can’t help but chuckle. He continues, “But it’s a bit of a quandary, isn’t it? How to keep the people of the Crystarium alive in my memory, without letting the person I was there and the memories I have keep me from starting anew. You gifted me with this second chance. It would be a waste to let it wither because I cannot let go of the past.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir pauses to look up properly at G’raha’s furrowed expression, “Any ideas on how you can, y’know…?” He motions vaguely with the screwdriver.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ever the pragmatist,” He chides through a wry smile, “Well… I suppose I’m starting with myself and with this body. What feels good, what I like. Trying things out. It’s a big experiment, really, and I find that it hasn’t yet steered me wrong,” G’raha fiddles with a loose lock of hair, “I don’t mean to ramble. You certainly went through much to get here in one piece, too. It’d be remiss of me to minimize that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir seems to shift in his seat, going back to work. It’s instinct to shoulder any stress as though it’s light as a feather so long as he doesn’t look too hard at what he’s carrying. Acknowledgement would make that weight real enough to crush him; but that’s how he ended up nearly exploding with light and dying a Sin Eater of cataclysmic proportions. As if summoned by the thought Ardbert’s face comes to mind-- Ardbert reaching out to offer his axe and take his hand and show him that he doesn’t have to face everything down alone. The memory settles a pang of something weighty but vacant in his chest: an empty room echoing with the last vestiges of a warm voice over his shoulder, in his ear. Ardbert was honest and true and wore his heart on his sleeve. He was good at sharing his feelings; maybe Rhiv’ir could stand to learn a lesson or to from his example. </span>
  <span>Fuck, he misses him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I admit, I don’t know what to do now either, for what it's worth,” Rhiv’ir admits slowly, sliding gears back into place, “Between Ala Mhigo and Doma and the First, I haven’t had this much downtime since... I can’t remember when.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha nods. Just when the silence seems as if it might border the end of the conversation, he bridges the gap: “Maybe you should join me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The suggestion surprises Rhiv’ir. He looks over with brows raised.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In learning ourselves again, I mean. You seem to carry much as I did when I was the Exarch, if not more. It’s easy to lose yourself in the burdens you take on for others-- no matter how noble or important. Maybe you need to figure out who you are, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the Warrior of Light’s turn to smile ruefully, looking down at his hands, his weapon deconstructed before him, “I don’t know... it just doesn’t seem like a good time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, that earns him a pointed </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “May I offer a little wisdom, from someone who has watched many lifetimes pass him by?” G’raha smiles, only the slightest bit cheeky, “If I have learned one thing, it is that in most cases there is no such thing as ‘a good time’ to do a lot of things that are very much worth doing,” Rhiv’ir feels a hand on his, stopping him from placing the last screw and forcing him to look up and meet G’raha’s eyes. Even in a young body he has the careful gaze of experience. It’s not fair that those bright red eyes are beautiful, to boot, and that they stick in his mind like an afterimage of the sun, “Especially for people like us, who dedicate our lives to greater causes and give so little thought to ourselves, there will never be a good time. The time is ours to make.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir swallows, setting down his tools and letting the words wash through him. He thinks of Lyna waiting at the checkpoint in Lakeland, how even with the world falling to pieces he himself once nudged G’raha to talk to her before it was too late. He wonders if that’s what G’raha is thinking of, too. His fingers are warm around Rhiv’ir’s wrist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Spoken like a wise old man,” Rhiv’ir chuckles, as if that alone could lighten the heaviness in his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,” G’raha grins, “Until recently, I was one.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Warrior of Light dreams that night. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A library, broad hands flipping through pages. They are worn and have calluses but look like they would be gentle, if he could touch them. He has an inexplicable urge to kiss those palms. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He dreams of a sky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It is vast and full and yet also hollow, echoing. It expands and contracts like it's breathing some air of its own making, a lung for an unknown creature broader than the world. It reminds him of the sea. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He dreams of helplessness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of Lakeland burning with white fire, of reaching out to save comrades who don’t see him, watching them die and feeling so deeply that if only he had tried harder, if only he was stronger, they might still be alive. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He dreams of holding a cold crystal hand that does not hold his back. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning arrives in rare form: crystal-clear bluebird skies, gentle shafts of sunlight streaming through the window, some warm smell tickling his nose. Rhiv’ir is almost able to enjoy it until a wave of exhaustion rolls over him-- he’s had sleepless nights before but this feels nothing like waking nightmare that was the front lines of war, or the restless tossing and turning he had when he first arrived in the ever-daylight of the First. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His cheek scrapes against something and Rhiv’ir realizes that his neck hurts, and that he’s not in his room but laying on the floor of the main hall of the Rising Stones, and though he is still in his pajamas he is definitely, decisively not alone. G’raha and Tataru stand over him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a deep-welled dread that Rhiv’ir has become so accustomed to that he never had cause to name it-- it’s the dread that preceded their raid on the Castrum and Praetorium, that rose in his chest when he heard Aymeric was captured, that froze his blood every time he knew he was walking into a fight that could constitute certain death. Every Primal, every Ascian. It was the dread of someone knowing that the next day or hour or minute could be the last-- or if not the last, would indelibly change his life forever. Rhiv’ir had gotten so used to pushing </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, that the power it once had to make him hesitate or falter had weakened with every passing calamity averted; courage wasn’t a character trait so much as a muscle to be exercised. Still, every time that dread reared in his heart he knew it was a warning bell for something to come. It hadn’t steered him wrong yet. He can feel it now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you-- are you back?” Tataru glances nervously between him and G’raha, whose mouth is drawn into a grim line. Rhiv’ir blinks and rubs his eyes through the blur, it’s too early for weird Warrior of Light shit right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Back from what?” he croaks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They look at each other.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were acting strange for a while there. We aren’t sure how long it was going on, but we found you a little less than an hour ago,” G’raha hedges, moving to help him up with careful hands and dust the dirt from his clothes. Rhiv’ir searches the two of them for answers and doesn’t like what he finds in their faces.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tataru fidgets with the edge of her tunic, “You were wandering around the Stones, but you seemed a little disoriented? When I said hello you looked so confused I knew something had to be wrong, so I went and got G’raha.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha picks up the thread: “Tataru brought me here and I tried to talk to you, ask questions, but you just stared at me.” Satisfied with his cleaning job, G’raha takes up a small, polite distance. Part of Rhiv’ir wishes he would close it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did I do anything else?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You came towards me and it looked like you were about to say something, but partway through you just sort of… collapsed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We were trying to take you to the infirmary,” Tataru chimes in, “I sent Hoary Boulder to go get Y’shtola and Urianger, I don’t know if the twins are awake yet. Unfortunately we’ve, uh. Had a hard time carrying you. Probably should have asked him to stay and help first, but we were panicking a bit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Understandable, since Rhiv’ir stands almost a head taller than G’raha and Tataru is, well, Tataru. He nods, unable to resist a little smile at the image of them attempting to move him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Rhiv’ir pulls out a chair and sits in a heavy slouch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>G’raha shakes his head, “Not at all. You’re never trouble,” He smiles, “Well, certainly not to me. Though anyone out there looking to summon a Primal might beg to differ.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That earns a sheepish grin. Tataru, shoulders relaxing as she assesses everyone to be awake and seemingly alright for the moment, turns on her heel, “I’ll go fetch some breakfast!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love Tataru’s cooking, but I hope it’s not that bread…” Rhiv’ir murmurs, glancing up at G’raha expecting a laugh. He seems distracted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not telling me something,” Rhiv’ir doesn’t ask it as a question but states it as an answer. The troubled flick of G’raha’s ear confirms his suspicion-- he only does that when he’s thinking far too much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You called me ‘Exarch’,” the words are slow to come but arrive all the same, paired with a hesitating glance, “And your voice… it sounded wrong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wrong?” he asks. G’raha nods. Troubling, all of this.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember any of it. I don’t know what happened.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s alright,” It’s G’raha’s turn to put on a brave face, and Rhiv’ir understands once more how so many people learned to put their trust in him as a leader, as someone who can be counted on to make everything right again, ”We’ll figure it out. I promise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rhiv’ir dares to put a hand on G’raha’s, and a small piece of him is relieved when he feels those fingers close around his own.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ardbert sits up: gasping, breath jagged, eyes open.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dun dun duuuuuuun! :D</p><p>if you wanna come shout at me about ffxiv or anything I'm @RhivirRhelko on twitter. warning you now it's mostly gposes and shitposts</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The weight of tomorrow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ardbert makes a decision. Rhiv'ir is totally fine. G'raha bakes pastries.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey y'all, sorry for the delay-- lots of real life shit happened so I sort of lost my fic momentum. This chapter is a little shorter I think because what had originally been ch.2 got long enough I decided to break it up into two parts-- hopefully I will have the next part done soon. Heads up that this is chapter is also largely unbeta'd haha</p><p>I played through all of 5.4 MSQ and this chapter doesn't reference that at all, but the next one probably will mention it and maybe something about the new Eden content, too. For now, presume that this chapter takes place between 5.3 and 5.4, so there will be no spoilers for the new MSQ content in this one. Theoretically this is all taking place in and around the MSQ storyline, in my mind at least. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What the--”</p><p> </p><p>Fray’s grin curls like singed paper at the edges, burning with something indecipherable,  “Oh? You’re back?”</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps calling what Ardbert does “sitting up” is generous as it makes it sound as though he has a body to sit with. He is acutely aware of his lack of form-- perhaps moreso, after what just happened-- but moves on instinct despite. It’s funny how a stubborn soul clings to the familiar things that wore grooves of habit into their life. He viscerally misses physicality.</p><p> </p><p>“What was that? It felt like a dream.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t dream,” Fray ambles over and squats next to him, “It wasn’t a dream. You, my friend, were in the Source.”</p><p> </p><p>“I-- I was?” His aether shivers in the shape of a man, and Ardbert can almost swear he feels something when Fray’s tail flicks through it, “But… How did you get me--”</p><p> </p><p>“Into a body in the world? Good question. I wonder if you can’t figure it out based on where we are.”  </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t mean--” Ardbert starts to scoff at the thought.</p><p> </p><p>Fray laughs, “You are a collection of aether trapped in the soul of someone who, if I may be so bold, is essentially a freak of nature. Stranger fictions, Ardie.”</p><p> </p><p>He flinches at the nickname, drifting back towards the stack of memory-books and channeling disembodied gestures of conflicted feelings: a flash of concern, a spark of desire, a simmering glow of shame. He almost manages to congeal a hand and squeeze it.</p><p> </p><p>“Why did you show me that, then?” Ardbert’s voice is low, a rumble of discontent, “Why did you let me do that?”</p><p> </p><p>“To show you possibilities,” Fray replies, “You don’t have to take this lying down.”</p><p> </p><p>“But don’t I?” Ardbert’s aether swells, “I just spent years and years wandering the ruins of the world I helped destroy, my <em> home </em>, and maybe if you told me back then that I could do something on my own I might have believed you. But I can’t. I learned that lesson well enough, watching so many good people die to every Sin Eater under the thrice-damned sun. I’m not even a husk anymore, I’m a husk of a husk, and I thought I was done being jerked around by fate. I thought that I played my part and could maybe, just maybe, get a little rest. I helped save Rhiv’ir and so helped save the First and atoned for everything I helped unleash--”</p><p> </p><p>Fray interrupts him, “But did you get what you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“I got enough--”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> But did you get what you </em> REALLY <em> want? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>That stops the swell of anger threatening to rise up Ardbert’s throat. Fray fixes him with a look that could pin butterflies to a wall as he rounds the books, boots echoing heavy footsteps that reverberate in the impossibly large space. Shadows trail from him like inkdrops in water, a pen scribing that dark silhouette in space itself. This is the fragment of a man who has felled gods and monsters, and even a piece of his power-- perhaps the most savage piece-- is enough to demand attention and respect.</p><p> </p><p>“Here’s what I think, Ardie,” Fray challenges, crowned with a grin that bares pointed teeth, “I think you need to be a little more honest with yourself, and I think you have a choice to make. You aren’t gone because you still have business with us. It’s selfish business, it’s personal business, but there’s no one out there who is entirely selfless. You spent your whole damn life being a hero and sacrificing everything for everyone else and now you are being presented with a chance to do something purely for yourself, for your own happiness, and even if that’s a narrow shot you are still responsible for making the choice to pursue it or fade away. You want rest? You can rest. You can dissipate right here and right now if you really have a mind to. But you haven’t, and you didn’t-- even when you didn’t know you had a You to be-- because like it or not, there is one thing about you that hasn’t changed.”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert feels his heart claw up into a throat he didn’t realize he had anymore. A pulse pounds in his ears. Fray stares him down and doesn’t blink.</p><p> </p><p>“You still love him. Even when every other part of you was stripped away, that love landed you here instead of oblivion.”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert wants to tell him off. He wants to rage, and he wants his axe, and he wants to tell him that he’s wrong and Fray doesn’t know anything about the man he is--</p><p> </p><p>But he’s right. </p><p> </p><p>Fray lets out a long breath through his nose, “So make your choice then. Do you give up and disappear from this world for good, tucking tail and running from your desires? Or do you fight for them? Do you fight for <em> him </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert settles, the weight of it all moulding him into something akin to human shape. The pretense of wondering why he is still here has been torn away and he is left only with his decision. His aetheric hand hovers over a book-- one of the last books, one with blank pages still being written. He’d found it and watched through Rhiv’ir’s eyes as he returned to the Crystal Tower, trekked through the expanse of staircases and grand rooms and sky-scraping pillars to find the sleeping form of the Exarch and carry him back, felt the relief and the care and the fear for that man’s life water a seed of longing in Rhiv’ir’s chest. He knew what that had felt like in his own body. Ardbert’s heart hurt to experience it all-- not sure where his feelings ended and Rhiv’ir’s began.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m already dead to him,” he murmurs, ”Who am I to return and demand anything? He’s moving on with his life.”</p><p> </p><p>That earns an eyeroll from Fray, “Ugh, stop with the self-sacrificing bullshit already. Your decision isn’t about Rhiv’ir. Your decision is about you and what you want. Do you still love him?”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert hesitates, “...Aye.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you would fight for that?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods.</p><p> </p><p>“Now the real question: are you willing to have the spine to fight for you, too?”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert wasn’t expecting that. He chokes on the answer, the feeling of it so big inside of him that it catches on his words, “Aye, I think I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” Fray nods, “Then fight.”</p><p> </p><p>“By taking over his body?”</p><p> </p><p>Fray shrugs, “Sometimes you have to fight with unorthodox methods to get the job done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you’re a part of him?” Ardbert huffs.</p><p> </p><p>“Certain.”</p><p> </p><p>“It feels wrong. He doesn’t know I’m here, he can’t allow something to happen if he isn’t aware of what’s going on--”</p><p> </p><p>He can feel the exasperation rolling off of Fray in waves, “Fine, don’t take my help then. But if you’re gonna fight then fight, don’t half-ass it.”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert softens, hand smoothing over the cover of the book.</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know it will be worth it?” He can feel his fears come to life as he speaks them into the aether, “What if I somehow make it back to him and he really has moved on with his life? What if I return for nothing?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s something new that grows in Fray’s expression, brows drawn, eyes narrowed, “Then you returned to finally live your own life, take back the years you lost to being a ghost, and love yourself enough to give a shit,” he waves a hand, “But trust me: you won’t have to worry about doing that alone.”</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert doesn’t stop the pained plea from coloring his tone, “How do you know that? How are you so sure?”</p><p> </p><p>Fray walks closer, leans in so that they are mere inches apart. Ardbert’s form has become more solid and he hadn’t noticed until now, the shape of his own nose almost brushing the tip of Fray’s. He’s haunted once more by the way Fray’s expression lays on top of the freckles on Rhiv’ir’s cheeks and the little scar on Rhiv’ir’s forehead and the tiny lines around Rhiv’ir’s golden-brown eyes that gleam like a cat’s in the darkness. Ardbert aches within the uncanny valley that gapes between Rhiv’ir and Fray-- near-twins, soulbound brothers, different branches of the same root tree.</p><p> </p><p>“Because,” Fray murmurs, breath ghosting Ardbert’s lips, “I know how we feel, too.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The infirmary at the Rising Stones may have been hastily constructed to house the soul-rent bodies of the Scions taken to the First, but it certainly hadn’t stopped seeing use and so has made itself into an institution unto itself. Once upon a time the room had been more of a meeting space and library of sorts. Walnut bookshelves still line two of the walls, large tables for reading or discussion set out for everything from anti-Primal battle strategy to game night, but all pushed to one side where the partitions have made space for the two rows of clean linen beds. Rhiv’ir finds himself thankful that Y’shtola, Thancred, and Urianger make ready use of the room for their own purposes-- even as his condition leads him to sleep for longer and longer stretches at a time, it keeps his days under medical watch far less boring.</p><p> </p><p>For example: playing solitaire with Urianger’s deck of cards while he takes aetheric measurements and “hmms'' at his page of notes. Rhiv’ir has almost found a place to put the Ewer when Y’shtola arrives to check in on their progress, followed by Thancred carrying an armful of books. She can’t read in the way she used to; he’s been kind enough to help by reading the text to her out loud, though Rhiv’ir has a hunch he doesn’t understand half of what those books say and really is more interested in hanging around to glance across the room at Urianger’s arms when he thinks he isn’t looking. </p><p> </p><p>“Any luck?” She asks, waving Thancred away to set the pile down on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Our friend’s aether seems to have changed once more. The precise nature of what is happening regrettably is not within my ken, though it seems as if the shape itself hath changed within his form. Perhaps sundering, though to what end I do not know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I feel fine,” Rhiv’ir chimes in, setting down the deck of cards, “A little worn out, but I just needed sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Y’shtola arches an eyebrow, “Lacking sleep does not cause aetheric signatures like you have. And I find it a bit too convenient that you happen to collapse right after having had a sudden bout of sleepwalking and also abnormal aetheric surging not long before,” She chides, “I understand you are impatient to return to normal, but after everything all of us have been through recently we can’t let you go just yet.”</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t matter that his brain feels like mush and when he goes to stand he sways on his feet, he’s totally fine-- until he reaches for the glass of water at his bedside and finds he can’t make enough of a fist to lift it. Rhiv’ir sighs and sinks back into the sheets. He hates how often she’s right.</p><p> </p><p>“My point is taken, I presume?” Y’shtola’s tone is gentler than before, but doesn’t sting any less. He nods and looks back down at his unfinished game of Solitaire. It takes some dexterity to collect and return the cards to Urianger but he can at least manage that-- and then thinks of how pathetic he is at the moment, so feeble. At least when he was overflowing with light in the First it felt like the hair on his whole body stood on end, like he could smell the ozone before a lightning strike, as though he were bristling with static power-- even if it was a power he could not entirely control. It hurt him, it made him feel like his very being might explode with energy; but it never left him feeling so exhausted, so hollow as this “aetheric surging” does. He feels like a different person when he’s not in a state worthy of fighting… </p><p> </p><p>Thoughts become fuzzy, eyes feeling like they might sink into his skull as his lids shut and he slides easily into a dark, dreamless sleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>In the moments of waiting, Ardbert watches. </p><p> </p><p>Being a voyeur doesn’t suit him. It chafes at his natural impulse to act, to change the outcome, to rush in and spare whatever pain he can from whoever he can; but there is no acting here, no saving. Just like the battlefield at Lakeland. He keeps returning to that moment, even now long after he rejoined Rhiv’ir and gave up his own ghost, and he hadn’t understood why until he began delving deep into the volumes of Rhiv’ir’s heart. Perhaps powerlessness is a familiar face, unpleasant and unwelcome though it may be. What sort of pathetic soul indulges in their own powerlessness? Suffocating and stymying, shouting for any mode of recognition or means of control, and yet relishing the nostalgic hollow comfort of not being able to help anyone, much less himself?</p><p> </p><p>Ardbert, apparently.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t like being left alone with those sorts of thoughts, so he reads. There’s plenty of material. It’s like being a child again in the town library, running his fingers along countless spines and feeling them flutter under his touch as he sprints through the History aisle like no librarian in the world could stop him. He wonders if that memory is his or Rhiv’ir’s, now that he considers it. Part of him wants to believe he knows himself well enough to tell; the other part knows he isn’t sure, and the uncertainty erodes his thoughts with all the patience of the sea.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t seen Fray in a while. Time is fluid here so what constitutes “a while” could be seconds or years but after their discussion Fray had disappeared to do some work that he wouldn’t budge on disclosing.</p><p> </p><p>So Ardbert pulls down another book from the shelves of Rhiv’ir’s soul and opens it up: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This scene begins in a familiar place-- Rhiv’ir’s room in the Pendants. Our hero sits on his bed, eyes hollow, omnipresent light streaming through the window even as the clock’s hands brush 1AM. Ardbert’s memory is spotty at best but he can guess that this must be during the time Rhiv’ir spent battling the Light taken into his own body, based on how his hands shake as he curls into a ball, tail shivering where it wraps around his knees. Ardbert was there. That’s how he knows this is a truly shared memory-- he stands next to him and has the fiercest urge to take him into his arms even though to try would do nothing but wound them both; so he stands, frowning, adding one more unresolved desire to his list of personal failures. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That is when the Exarch arrives. He comes every day, like a crystalline clockwork man, and every day he sits on Rhiv’ir’s bed and holds his hand and Ardbert watches himself be consumed with a conflict of jealousy and grief and yearning too tangled to have a name.  </em>
</p><p>
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</p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>When Rhiv’ir wakes, Y’shtola and Urianger and Thancred are gone. There’s a lukewarm cup of tea at his bedside, along with a note from Tataru that she’ll send someone along with his dinner soon. He must have slept through lunch. Rhiv’ir feels well enough to lift the cup this time, luckily. He sips at the tea.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t five minutes later that there’s a knock on the door-- more out of courtesy than actually asking-- and G’raha lets himself into the room with a covered plate balanced on one arm, the other fussing with the squeaky door handle.</p><p> </p><p>“I come bearing pastries?” He poses it like a question, smiling sheepishly. A loose pang of wild affection snags on Rhiv’ir’s heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” He sits up in his bed, making room for G’raha to perch on the bedside and hand over the baked goods. They smell amazing. He’s really gotten so much better with practice; G’raha’s first baking attempts were questionable to say the least, but Tataru has been a good teacher. Rhiv’ir’s stomach growls emphatically and G’raha laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” he grins, “How are you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>Rhiv’ir answers around a mouthful of cupcake, “Muuahbebbr.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good! Good,” His hands knead at the blanket draped over Rhiv’ir’s legs, toying with the scrunch of the fabric in an anxious gesture that reminds Rhiv’ir vaguely of a kitten’s kneading. “You scared me there for a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>He swallows and replies: “For what it’s worth I… I scared me, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, I knew you would be alright in the end! You’re you, you’re the Warrior of Darkness and of Light, you’ve practically experienced everything under the sun.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t say everything,” Rhiv’ir scrubs the short hair at the back of his neck, “I feel like I’d be tempting fate to admit to that. There’s always something new, something no one has seen before. I’ve just been lucky, that’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>G’raha’s brows knit together, “Perhaps it’s luck, but it’s not just that. It’s you, too. You’re strong. Don’t underestimate yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>The Warrior of Light is quiet for a long moment. It’s his turn to fiddle with the sheets. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I just… I’m worried. I get lucky a lot. Sometimes even when I’m not lucky I can do something about it but-- I can’t help but feel like all this is going to catch up to me someday,” he looks to G’raha, studying his expression and hoping to find understanding, “People like me don’t live long and happy lives. They burn out, or make a big sacrifice and are remembered, but they don’t get to be happy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who says that?” G’raha takes his hand, gently squeezes it.</p><p> </p><p>“Ysale. Haurchefant. Ardbert. Good people who put themselves out there to try and make the world better even though it cost them everything,” Rhiv’ir’s smile is sad, a stone worn smooth by years of being battered by the sea, “To think that I’m better than them or any different would be  arrogant of me. I’ve survived this long mostly because of my friends and some good luck. But neither of those can stop death every time. One of these days, I won’t be so lucky.”</p><p> </p><p>A hand lifts to push some hair out of Rhiv’ir’s face, a stray bang settled back into its place. G’raha’s smile is kind, his touch gentle. Rhiv’ir is reminded suddenly of just how <em> old </em> his friend is.</p><p> </p><p>“What about me?” He asks, tone barely above a whisper, “I was one of those people, too. I did my part to make the world better, and I paid that price. I gave up everything; but here I am at the end of it all, and right now I’m pretty happy. That is not to say people don’t die, or that tragedy doesn’t happen. But--” G’raha tips Rhiv’ir’s chin to him, now forced to look him in the eye, “Life may always have to end someday, but your life itself is not a death sentence, my friend. Your <em> heroism </em> is not a death sentence.”</p><p> </p><p>Rhiv’ir isn’t sure how to respond to that. He feels the tears welling but pushes them down. G’raha shifts so that he is sitting by his side, pulls the Warrior of Light into a comforting embrace, “And you know that any of us would go to the ends of the fourteen shards and back before we let you die, or live out an unhappy life. You may protect all of us, but we all protect you, too. You deserve every onze of happiness you can find.”</p><p> </p><p>If the fabric of G’raha’s scarf feels damp under Rhiv’ir’s eyes, he doesn’t say anything about it. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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  <em> The Warrior of Light dreams that night. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He dreams of a bloody axe. Smoky grey Amaro feathers. Eyes the color of the dawn sky. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ardbert. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Even seeing him in a dream makes his heart ache. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ardbert speaks, but no sound comes out. He’s whispering, talking, shouting, screaming-- silence. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>“How did you do it?”</p><p> </p><p>Fray melts into being-- coalescing out of the nothing-something, “Do what?” </p><p> </p><p>Ardbert can’t imagine how long Fray has been here, to weave in and out of his material state so fluidly, “Appear to him in the world. Talk to him.”</p><p> </p><p>Fray shrugs, “It wasn’t all that difficult. I used the darkness that we had been cultivating to manifest a semi-physical presence, and projected our appearance onto it so I might speak to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yes. Easy as pie.” Ardbert replies with rueful wryness.</p><p> </p><p>“Dreaming didn’t work so well?” The answer is written clearly in Ardbert’s bitter glowering. Fray chuckles, “If you want to try again with possession, my offer still stands.”</p><p> </p><p>He frowns, “I don’t see how that’s much better, to be honest. I can’t have a conversation with him if he’s suppressed because I’m puppeting him. Any other ideas?”</p><p> </p><p>Fray doesn’t pace the area so much as billow around it, but somehow it still looks equally thoughtful. His silence feels like a held breath-- or maybe that’s just Ardbert holding his own. Existence in the nothing-something is formless until suddenly an emotion chokes at his throat or furrows his brow and suddenly there is the sickening feeling of not having a physical form even though you feel like you should. He always was a tactile creature by nature, deeply rooted in his body; so to be unanchored from it (or his old ghostly semblance thereof) makes Ardbert feel unmoored. Fray’s focused <em> thinking </em> certainly feels loud, too, which doesn’t help.</p><p> </p><p>“You were a warrior of darkness, too, were you not? You have your own darkness to contend with. To build from.” Fray cuts his eyes over to him, “Maybe it’s time to reacquaint you.”</p><p> </p><p>He casts out a hand and suddenly the world shifts-- the Nothing-Something scrolls away to one side and Ardbert doesn’t move with it. It’s still there, some 50 yalms to his left, but Fray is building a new structure all around them. First, a round of ashy packed dirt beneath their nonexistent feet. Then, a wooden ring. He understands what Fray has created before a dark, shining greatsword roils into Fray’s hand and a familiar spectral axe appears in his own.</p><p> </p><p>Fray’s eyes cast over him appraisingly, “We wouldn’t have been able to do this some time ago, but I think you have found your sea legs in this place well enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“What--” </p><p> </p><p>“I made Rhiv’ir aware of me when I began training him as a Dark Knight,” Fray says by way of explanation, hefting the blade over his shoulder. His tone surprises Ardbert with its gentleness, its sympathy, “He spent so long denying himself darkness. He started out learning the way of the paladin, becoming a beacon of honor and perfection, desperate to be the paragon people raised him up to be-- but he did so at the cost of his own heart. His anger, his despair, his hunger for more: those are messier stuff than Oaths and Commandments. Perhaps it was because he tried to cut out the less-than-heroic parts of himself that I was born, formed from the cast-off grief that did not disappear but festered. These parts of ourselves are powerful. More importantly, they are <em> us </em>. They are as much a part of us as the light is, and to throw it away isn’t just a waste-- it is to cut out your own heart.”</p><p> </p><p>Fray paces the circle, and every instinct inside of Ardbert pushes him to readiness, pacing the opposite side in mirrored steps.</p><p> </p><p>“He may fancy himself a Gunbreaker now, but the weapon doesn’t matter: being a Dark Knight is not about what’s in your hand, it’s about what is in your soul. Do you try to fight your darkness, or do embrace it? Do you let it make you stronger? Do you use it to seek justice? I told you that you’re going to have to fight for yourself, Ardie. I suppose this is more literal than I meant at the time, but… so it goes.”</p><p> </p><p>Fray hefts the sword, grinning. </p><p> </p><p>“Let us begin.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I, much like many fic authors, am always delighted and inspired and spurred to write by knowing people read what I make. So if you got the time, please comment! ;) Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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